Self Condemnation
by bibliobibuli17
Summary: Firstperson POV, Draco Malfoy. What his thoughts and feelings may have been before receiving his Dark Mark... WARNING: overly wordy [difficult], major angst & drama. Oneshot. No pairings.[M for vague suggestive violence, and a couple of naughty words]


Disclaimer: Me no owny.

**WARNING**: Once again, this was purposely written to be overly wordy and harder to comprehend. It was written to some doomsday music I was listening to at the time, as an assignment for my Writing class on TheThirdCorridor. If you have a problem with the way it's written…well, you could always _not_ read it. I have another oneshot that may be more to your liking…_Driver's Ed for Wizards _(Humor).

If you're curious, the music listened to can be found at:

http:// www. Youtube .com / watch?v fyrcQNaY1J8 ….(without the spaces)

Enjoy!!!

--_Glomps_ to whoever spots the the belief of a famous psychologist!

--Uber props to Pennilyn Novus on Mugglenet and/or TheThirdCorridor (which you should check out, it's awesome!) for being Beta for this! Talk about work…

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SSS

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I can feel His presence. It seeps through the pores of the Manor, malicious and hateful, disabusing me of any notion of escape. The shadows in my elegant and sophisticated room appear to darken before my eyes, the sheer opaqueness seeming to press in on me, trying its level best to stifle my soul.

The dense malevolence of His aura suffocates any shred of hope that may have survived my father's idea of discipline; disallowing me the luxury of distraction, of avoidance, forcing me to acknowledge the fate that awaits me below. The feeling of such complete and utter despair that falls upon me is so intense, it is as if my heart stops with the heaviness of it.

I lay immobile, frozen in the overwhelming fear I refuse to let overtake me. I desist from considering too closely, or delving into, any stray thoughts in my otherwise flat consciousness. Any one of those thoughts could give life to the fear, giving it the control needed to send me into hysteria. Time is speeding past in that maddening way it has when one dreads something. I have a scant few minutes before I must begin the descent to the death of my freedom, and the birth of my slavery. No, surely this will be much worse than slavery. These precious few minutes are not enough time; I must be self-possessed, superior - cold and calculating. How can I manage to hold such a façade when the immense bleakness of my situation makes all efforts to be known against my fierce determination to ignore it? _I cannot show my panic._

The sun is setting. I shift my eyes from their unblinking, blank stare at the ceiling to my window, watching it sink under the horizon. The further it retreats, the more my desperation claws at my ribcage; begging me to let it free and allow it to shred the last of my sanity. I mustn't give in. I must hold on to my dignity and act as someone of my station, someone bestowed with this name, should – accept my fate with the utter rapture my father and his Lord feel it deserves.

My eyes track the last of that great orange circle of fire in the sky as the highest ridge begins to disappear, and I know I must begin the journey to the Ballroom. My left hand clenches in the duvet with such vehemence that I can feel the rhythmic beating of my heart in my tensed fingers. I turn my head to observe the veins that stand out along the section of forearm free from my robes. Feeling as if disconnected from my body, I watch as that hand and arm turn over. I stare with empty interest at the smooth, unblemished flesh, and despite my efforts to remain unemotional I feel a stab of anguish deep in my chest. It is so sharp and strong that I cannot breathe for a moment. When I finally manage to pull in a shallow breath through my parted lips, the air tears at my throat and my lashes are heavy with salt water.

To allow myself to feel these emotions will demolish my foundations, enabling my weakness to be exposed for all in the world to see. I force them back, out of my heart and far into the depths of my mind. I freely accede that I owe my life to my godfather, for were it not for him, the Dark Lord would see this weakness and I would not survive the meeting that is to come. My chest now feels empty, as though I am nothing but flesh and air – the heartless bastard that I've so often been accused of being.

I drag myself from the bed, moving slowly as to savor the movements that are to be the last of my own volition. My limbs are so heavy, I am inclined to believe they are packed with the resentment I've felt for my father and stored away since my earliest conscious thoughts. I stand, and the will it takes to keep myself from collapsing nearly saps all of my strength. I almost feel like I float to the mirror, so detached am I. Not detached from the situation – no, agonizingly far from it – but from the physical manifestation of my hopelessness lodged deep within my chest, a leaden weight tied to my entrails, pulling them down toward the ground. I gaze into my own grey eyes and feel an odd sort of displaced pride at how lifeless I seem. My eyes may appear dead to me, but Father and his Lord will see the cold, calculating, self-possessed little Death Eater they wish to see. In this moment, I feel the contents of my stomach attempt to revolt at the glimpse of the future I see for myself, and in denial of my abhorrent sense of pride, I retreat once again to my almost out-of-body state.

I cross the threshold of my room and begin the descent downstairs. As I near the ground floor, dear Aunt Bella's cackles float through the air and crawl into my ears, infecting my thoughts with images of what she may be engaging in to inspire such amusement. There is no need for a _Silencio_ or any other simple spells of the like in the Manor, built on such a remote stretch of land. Nothing that may go on in that room will be heard at even the front door, the Manor being such an expansive structure. I make an effort to refrain from speculating. I'm fully aware of what I will be walking into – cruelty and torture in their most primitive forms. Father, from the time I was the tender age of four, has done his best to desensitize me from the violence I will fast be exposed to. He did well, as in everything he endeavors, but he has never forced me to participate. As grateful as I am for the reprieve, I wonder if it was truly to my benefit, as I cannot see the Dark Lord excusing me from what I am sure are the current festivities. I am fairly confident the reason I've not heard any screams is that the victims have already been 'screamed out', their throats torn and blood dripping from their mouths in the slight consciousness they are forced to endure through _Ennervate_.

I see the hooded and glazed eyes of my father's previous victims in the picture frame of my mind, seeming to plead to me for my assistance in freeing them from the torments they suffered in Father's clutches. Accusing me, when I could only stand and watch helplessly as Father continued on in thinly veiled ecstasy, 'preparing me' being his weak and translucent guise for indulging in his own dark and twisted fantasies. When the last vestiges of life faded from their eyes – if any life, any will to live, may have existed after having any and all innocence torn from their unwilling souls - I believe I was the one each and every one damned with their dying breath.

I reach the bottom of the stairs and feel my heart begin to increase in speed. I pause to regain my bearing, shying away from conjectural thoughts of what I will be forced to do in order to survive. I refuse to acknowledge the excuse that in surviving I may be available to aid; to end such perversions, such mockery of fighting for what is believed right. While true, this is only a secondary reason for following the path I do, and intentions are what determine one's place in such a situation. I wish to live – a purely selfish reason for standing by so nonchalantly and watching as so many gave their lives to 'the preparation of Draco Malfoy'. In taking the actions I have, based on this motivation, I have no need for Father's victims - in essence, my victims - to damn me…as I myself have already cemented such as my fate.

After several seconds, I force my right foot forward and begin the walk to judgment once again. As I close in on my destination, the heavy pants and groans of pain and pleasure become clearer in my ears. I am nearly certain that an Amplifying Charm has been cast on the room…possibly a futile attempt by Father to excite me as I approach, possibly just serving to enhance the gratification of the tormentors. My feet seem to become more obstinate than before, and I am forced to use considerable will power to keep moving at a sedate and unconcerned pace. Against my wishes, my mind runs rampant, imagining the scene I will be soon surveying. The abundant material in my memories available for use by my imagination, coupled with the knowledge that I must soon participate, gives my stomach the incentive it needs to once again venture to empty itself - despite my several-years-honed desensitization. I pause once more to force all feeling into the darkest depths of my mind, this time ensuring I imagine barrier after barrier into place around them; essentially, wiping my mind. Until I am left with the blank slate I was born with.

Truly cold and emotionless now, I move to finish my journey. Or, if one were a pessimist, you might say it is the first step toward its beginning. The doors loom menacingly above me, threatening and leering with the evil housed behind them. As they stretch out before me, they seem to revel in their intimidation factor – the personification of intimidation. I reach out, not deigning to acknowledge the slight hesitation that makes its existence known in the shaking of my hand, and knock. I wait for precious few seconds before a blood-spattered and maniacally grinning elder Goyle emerges from one side of the entrance. I am distantly surprised my father is not the one to welcome me, and decide Father must be occupied with amusing himself and most likely finds his entertainment to be of a higher priority than I am at the moment.

Before I step over the brink into the hell I've chosen to live, I allow one last thought to fully absorb my mind, infused with a burning and seething rage:

_May the gods damn the Malfoy name to the deepest, darkest, cruelest circle of Hell, and me with it. _


End file.
